


Twinges

by stepantrofimovic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1x06 aftermath, Asexual Character, Coulson Lives, Discussion of sexual/romantic orientation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gratuitous exploration of characters' feelings, Jossed, Late Night Conversations, Other, but he's still adjusting to that, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what the tags say: Coulson deals with an upset Fitz after what happened in 1x06 (FZZT). This brings back some things he would very much prefer not to think about, and some things he should deal with soon. Mostly Coulson-centric, although it explores FitzSimmons' relationship too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twinges

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this immediately after watching episode 1x06, and I still haven't had time to go on with the series, so this is almost certainly not whatever-comes-after-"FZZT" compliant. (ETA: in retrospect, this was a big understatement.) I've also been avoiding other fics in this fandom, because (obviously) spoilers. Some elements are based on my own headcanon. English is my second language, so forgive (and feel free to point out) any mistakes.

That Phil Coulson had trouble sleeping was nothing new. At least, not since the Battle of New York. Nor was it unusual for him to take a walk around the Bus and pretend he wasn't subconsciously checking that everyone was there and no one was hurt or unable to sleep or doing idiotic things like trying to sell them out to the Rising Tide _or getting infected with an alien virus and jumping off the plane in a misguided attempt to save their lives, thank you very much_.

 _Ok, tonight might just be a bit worse than usual_. Phil carefully unclenched his fists and breathed. In, out, in, out, ignoring the twinges of phantom pain in his chest where the scar was, ignoring the nagging part of him that insisted he was perfectly healed and therefore it was childish to keep worrying (he was _not fine_ , no good in pretending otherwise, trust May with that, they would know), listening to the quiet sounds of Simmons shuffling in her bed – _sleeping_ , Phil thought, as peacefully as possible after what had happened – her breathing pattern was regular, as opposed to – wait.

He double-checked: the sounds that came from Jemma Simmons' bunk were completely reassuring. She was there, and there was no reason to doubt that she was fine. The laboured breathing came from Phil's right, two doors down. No, one door. Fitz.

 _Figures._ Phil moved quietly and stood by the scientist's door for a few seconds. Fitz sounded like someone was trying to hold his head underwater and he had to make the most of every breath he could steal ( _oh, I really needed to bring that memory back right now, did I?_ ). Phil's hand hovered over the keypad, ready to punch in the code that would override the lock. Then he thought better and knocked gently. He waited a few seconds before knocking again.

“Fitz. Are you in there?”

Silence. Gasping sounds. Something that sounded suspiciously like keening.  _Either he's having a really interesting dream, or a panic attack. Well._ Phil quickly entered the code. The lock clicked.

It was actually a surprising demonstration of trust that Fitz had not disabled the manual overriding function,  when he was probably the only one on the Bus with the ability to do so. Or not the only one. Come to think of it, he should probably check Skye's door  as  soon  as possible.

Phil slid the door open just enough to let himself in. The bunk was tiny – they all were – ,  but he expected the scientist to be sleeping, or at least lying in bed. He was mildly surprised when he bumped against a pair of bony knees inches away from the door. Fitz was sitting upright, clutching a pillow against his chest. It looked like he had bitten into the pillowcase. Which,  as far as Phil knew, was not  made of  cotton, and was  most definitely  not supposed to tear when someone sank their teeth into it. Unless they pulled. Hard.

_So, panic attack it is._ Unsurprising,  and not as alarming as it should have been. This, Phil could deal with. It was not like he'd never had to bring a gasping, shivering Clint Barton back to reality. Or, in one memorable occasion, Natasha. That had earned him a cracked rib,  a wary Black Widow for a month, and an honest-to-God lecture about layers of conditioning from Fury.  Who didn't know nearly enough about conditioning to understand Natasha, but apparently really needed to make sure that Phil knew who was in charge.

Fitz gasped and gulped. Ok,  better get  back to the  situation  at hand.  Phil lowered himself gently on the scientist's bed and spoke as softly as he could.

“Fitz? Fitz, it's Coulson. I need you to look at me.”

“Coulson? Sir?” Raw. Cracking. Perfectly normal.

“Yes, Fitz, it's me. Look at me. Good. Now, I need you to focus on your breathing. You're having a panic attack. We need to get it under control. Breathe with me. Please.” He brought Fitz's hand to rest on his chest, so that the young man could feel it rising and falling and match his breathing pattern. He counted softly, in a calming voice. Fitz was trying not to clutch at his shirt, but failing miserably. Phil kept his own touch as light as possible.

“It's ok. I'm ok. Nothing happened. I'm fine.”

“Yes, it did, and no, you're not. Do not worry about that now.” _I'll take care of it_. “Just breathe,  for now, please.”

In a  few minutes, Fitz's breathing started to even out. He was calming down – until the sobs welled up, of course. The young man turned his face to the wall, trying to move away from Phil.

“Hey. Fitz. It's fine. Look at me.”

The sight of Fitz's face, his every  feature scrunched up in the effort of keeping the tears from spilling, sent new twinges  of pain down Phil's chest. He gave a small smile.

“I said it's fine. Trust me.” Seriously, what _did_ people  at headquarters tell recruits, that they were so afraid of crying in front of a superior officer? Phil was going to have that talk with Fury sooner than later. He had been meaning to speak with him before New York, but then he'd had more pressing matters to attend to.

In the meantime, Fitz's attempts to keep his own sobs at bay were failing – _thank God for emotionally vulnerable scientists_ , Phil thought. If it had been Ward in Fitz's place... well. A hug was just not going to cut it. _Oh, right. Hug._ Phil angled Fitz towards himself, so that his head would fall somewhere in the area of his right shoulder ( _n_ _ot on his left side, thank you very much_ ), and tugged gently. The young man went boneless against him. Phil let him cry it out, all the while stroking his shoulder slightly with his thumb. Not much in the way of comfort, but then, he didn't think Fitz could handle anything more.

“'m sorry –” After a while, Fitz struggled to get himself upright. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I should be _fine_. I mean, nothing happened to me. I'm sorry I went... well. This.  All over you. Oh, dear, I must have ruined your shirt. Sorry! Sir. I'm sorry. Really. I'm –”

“Yeah, Fitz, I think I have gotten the ‘sorry’ part.”

The young man attempted a  weak  smile.

“You've got nothing to be sorry for, and I know you know that.” _Really, do they_ train _them to think they can't get upset over something like what happened here today?_ Because if that was the case, then Fury was _so_ going to hear a piece of Phil's mind.

“Yeah. Sorr– ok. It's just... I should be fine.”

“I got that part too. And I happen to think that you know this is not true.”

“Yeah. All right. Nothing happened to me.”

“I'd think something did.”

“Yes. No. Not _to me_ directly. In person. I was just knocked  out by my best friend who then tried to jump off a plane. Heck, she _managed_ to jump off the plane. And  then I didn't know what to do and –”

“Well, it looked like you knew all right. Ward told me you got the parachute out.”

“Yeah. And I couldn't get the straps to work. They'd gotten tangled. I think. I'm not even sure that was the problem. It just didn't work. I'm not good at this! It was her who insisted that we go in the field. I didn't want to. _Don't_ want to.  ‘See the world, Fitz!’ No. Really. Ok, see the world, yeah, great, maybe, but not this, not watching Jemma try to _kill herself_ and oh dear I said that aloud, didn't I? But that's what she did. It's not my fault. _It is_ my fault.  I should have known better. I should not have turned my back on her. I should have jumped. I should have been able to get that damn parachute to work and jump because if it weren't for Ward she would have _died_ and – yeah. She would be dead.  That's it. She would. Be. Dead.”

 _Well, at least we got straight to the problem._ Fitz  stared at the door, his face scrunching up with pain and anger once more. He was breathing heavily again.

“What Simmons did was her choice.” _Just as it was my choice to lock her in the lab._  


“...uh?”

“It was not her call, and I already told her that – gave her a piece of my mind, and I wasn't light on her, I assure you. But it was entirely her choice. What you did – getting the parachute, grabbing the vaccine –”

“Anti-serum.”

“...pardon?”

“Anti-serum. Not a vaccine. Vaccines prevent infections, she was already –”

“Fitz.”

“Uh. Sorry.”

“What I'm trying to tell you is – Ward wouldn't have done that. He wouldn't have thought of the parachute, not because he is not trained for this kind of situation, but because his only focus was not on getting Simmons back. That was you. He just acted on what _you_ thought. Just as _you_ thought of a way to get the proper tools to her and _you_ entered the lab at the risk of contracting an alien virus just to  be at her side while she worked on the cure.”

“I – I think Jemma said something similar to this, earlier.”

“Then you should probably have listened to her. Or asked for help, rather than dealing with this alone and getting yourself worked up to this point. How long have you been here, thinking about what could have happened, three hours? Four? You knew you could have talked to me. Or to May. Or to Simmons, or to anyone of us, really, goddammit, Fitz.”

“...sorry, sir. Again.”

Phil took a deep breath ( _twinge_ _. Seriously, this has to stop_ ). “No, I am sorry. I should not have snapped at you. I just don't like the idea of anyone of you hurting themselves, or beating themselves up – over anything, really.”

“I – I know, sir. I mean, I noticed that. But really, I should be fine. Jemma is ok. Nothing's happened.”

“Many things have happened, as I've said before. No one can be fine mere hours after seeing their partner jump to their death from a plane.”

He didn't expect Fitz to snap at that, but he did, suddenly getting to his feet. “She's not  _my partner._ Really, sir, no offence,  but  you should know better.  We're not dating, we're not sleeping together, no matter what you and Skye and Ward and –”

Phil raised a hand. “Fitz.  Please, stop.”

“Sorry, sir, but it's –”

“I didn't mean _romantic_ partner, Fitz. I meant  ‘partner’. As in ‘person you work with’. In close proximity. Lab-mate, if you wish. But I think ‘partner’ is actually a pretty good word to describe what you and Simmons are to each other, isn't it?”

“We're not dating. Nor do we have any intention of –”

“I'm aware of that. You've known each other for years, have been incredibly close since the first months after you met in university, and neither of you has ever manifested any kind of romantic inclination towards the other. I don't need to be a behavioral scientist to understand that this is not going to change anytime soon.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean –”

“No offence taken. What I would like to know now is why you're getting so upset about this.”

“It's – everyone's doing it. _Assuming_.”

“Then you might have to talk to them.”

“Also, Jemma doesn't like it when people imply that we're sleeping together.”

“I understand that. Neither do you.”

“Neither do I. It's just, we're not. Period. It's like no one understands that two people could care about each other without – without having sex. It's like they're doubting us. I care about Jemma. She's my friend. I don't want to sleep with her. I'm not – I'm not _in the friendzone_. It's an idiotic concept which has _absolutely nothing_ to do with our situation and why do people assume I'm lying or in denial every time I tell them this?”

“I don't.” A brief pause. Phil considered what he was about to say. “Also, I happen to have read the section of Simmons' file where her sexual orientation is listed, and I think it might have something to do with your reaction over this.”

Fitz's expression shut off. “That's – none of your business, if I may, sir.”

“You may not. It's vital information that I, as your supervisor, need to know. I need to know that she's asexual as well as I need to know that you're a heterosexual, cisgender male, or that I am bisexual.” _Or that Hawkeye is gay and Black Widow is aromantic._ Although that last bit had not been on her file until Budapest. Oh, it should have been. Phil had almost chewed Jasper Sitwell's head off his shoulders after what happened in Budapest, and it hadn't only been about Natasha's orientation. But then, how a usually skilled handler like Jasper could make such a string of rookie mistakes was above Phil's understanding. “You know, my duties have to do with risk assessment, caring about your psychological as well as physical well-being – boring stuff like that. You can see how things like your sexual orientation and gender might be of interest.” Phil gave another wry smile. The conversation was quickly tiring him out. _Yeah, the conversation._ Not the thought of Clint and Natasha, who still believed he were dead. Definitely not.

“...You're bisexual?”

“Yes. It's on my file.” _Along with the fact that I've been killed in action, and my assets still think I am dead. Damn, this_ has _to stop._ “As I said, it's  necessary for SHIELD to have this kind of information about their agents.”

“I – didn't think about that.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I was out of line.”

“No problem, Leo.” _Ok,_ _now_ _he was tired._

“So you do know my name.”

“Not without external assistance. You have a name-tag on your door, you know.”

“...do I?”

“Fitz. I do know your name. And Simmons'. And I don't really get you two mixed up. Most of the time, anyway.” Phil smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

“Yeah. Of course. I – I think I'm ok now.”

“Good. I'm going. Do try to sleep. It's very late.” Phil stood up and slid the door open, again, just enough to let himself out.

“Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. Come talk to me the next time this happens, will you?” He didn't wait for an answer, just slid the door closed again. Simmons' breathing indicated that she was still sleeping peacefully. Phil padded silently towards his own quarters. After all, it was very late.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic -- or, at least, the first one I've deemed decent enough for publishing. Constructive criticism is very welcome. I hope to write more for this fandom; if I do, I think I'll mostly stick with the characters' outline I've sketched out here, but one can never be sure.
> 
> (self-promotion time: I have [a tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/). Come say hi.)


End file.
